


It's Just You

by Nova42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean-Centric, Episode: s12e03 The Foundry, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 16:43:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12112917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nova42/pseuds/Nova42
Summary: Dean didn't like hope. It was a cruel sensation; the crystal meth of emotions. It hooked you fast and killed you hard. It was sharp sticks and cherry bombs, offering release in the midst of pain only to snatch it away the moment one dared to believe. Tag to 12x03 "The Foundry".





	It's Just You

 

   _So let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin_  

_You're waiting for someone to perform with_

_And don't you know that it's just you, hey Jude, you'll do_

 

Dean laid a hand on the Impala's hood and trailed his fingers along the smooth, cool metal, tracing every familiar bump and curve. He'd know her curves anywhere, could pick her out from a crowd of dozens, blindfolded. His eyes slid down the passenger side of the car, pausing for a moment on the newly replaced back panel. The casual observer would never be able to tell that she'd been struck just a few days prior; hell, even the avid car enthusiast wouldn't be able to tell, not with the care he took.

But Dean could tell. He knew every dent, every scar, every hit she'd taken. For them, because of them.

He'd memorized them all, compiled a full mental catalog of the damage inflicted, because he knew that regardless of the work you put into the repairs, regardless of how diligently you buffered out the dents or touched up the scratches . . . every blow weakened her, brought her closer to that final hit. The one there's no coming back from.

But Dean was meticulous in taking care of her, in giving her what she needed and repairing damage others would give up as a lost cause. This particular time hadn't been so bad, considering, and it hadn't taken him long to fix her. He'd done it so many times – built her back up from practically nothing – it occurred to him that, technically, she wasn't the same car she once was. Same make and model, of course, but the creak in her doors was a little different, higher in pitch and spoke of her age. The deep rumble of her engine had an altered rhythm to it. She was the same car, but she had a new body and a different engine, and Dean supposed that in there laid the problem.

He folded his fingers around the Impala's door handle, the familiar  _creak_  echoing through the garage like a cathartic Band-Aid over a sucking chest wound, and slid behind the wheel, running the flat of his palms against the well worn leather.

Dean didn't like to fall into the trap of hope that often. It was a cruel sensation; the crystal meth of emotions. It hooked you fast and killed you hard. It was sharp sticks and cherry bombs, offering release in the midst of pain only to snatch it away the moment one dared to believe.

Dean wasn't blind, nor was he stupid, even if he sometimes played the part. He could see that his mother was struggling, fighting to find her place and fit into this new world. But he'd wanted this  _so_  damn bad, like nothing he'd ever wanted before, and he kept telling himself that if he  _believed_  everything would be okay, then maybe – just this once – he could have this one thing.

_Everyone leaves you, Dean. You notice? Mommy. Daddy. Even Sam._

The words had been a knife through the heart, but Dean had always held tight to the belief, the knowledge that – yes, Sammy had left him, and so had his father, but his mother never did. His mom was  _taken_  from him. His mother, who was so much to him – she had never and  _would_  never leave him.

He sagged against the molded leather seat, closed his eyes against the memory of the conversation that had taken place in the library. The words ricocheted around his mind like a fired shot. He felt tired, hollowed out, the numbness infusing throughout his body. His throat clenched around the building lump lodged in his throat.

 _Mom_. A word – a  _name –_ that had always been synonymous with safety, with home and family, love and acceptance. It had been the singular dream he'd clung to since he lost her. She had been his safe haven, an idea he could hold onto when everything else had turned to ashes and when he saw her alive once more, he thought he'd finally gotten that dream, finally had his mother.

And he had wanted it so badly that he let what had always been an inevitability blindside him.

_Maybe it's not them. Maybe, it's you._

Because everyone left, eventually.

Sammy left loudly, declaring it to the world. Dad left quietly, while he wasn't looking, and Mom said they weren't what she wanted. And she left, too.

He didn't blame her – how could he? It wasn't her fault that he couldn't be what she wanted, what she needed. He tried; he did what he thought was right, but he failed her just like he failed Sam and his father. Dean was never very good at being what his family needed him to be, always seeming to fall just short of the mark. He couldn't be the brother Sam had wanted, nor the soldier Dad had needed, so they left to find it elsewhere. Away from him.

And now his mother had left as well, and it was  _his_  fault. He should have tried harder, or been  _better_ , but it was too late now.

They'd been standing right there but she wouldn't call them her boys, and he couldn't look her in the eye, couldn't bear to see the disappointment he knew would be there. The disappointment that was  _always_  there.

She didn't want them, not as the hunters they'd become, but as the children they never got to be.

They were still Sam and Dean, still the same make and model, but with a new body and a different engine and layers of dents and scars poorly hidden under a thin veneer of touch-up paint.


End file.
